I carry pictures
of the queen in my pocket every day, and get this, some of the pictures are on metal.

I often also tend to hand these out to young maidens at bars, in which return they give us ale.
(Chance1234 up for parole on, Mon 19 Sep 2005, 9:12, Reply)

Nice to see you - to see you WIIIIIGGG!!!
Once upon a time, a friend and I rented a place for a year in the self-proclaimed "richest town in Britain", Virginia Water.

Now, the place itself was hardly anything special, a nondescript flat in a small block by the local shops and station, populated mostly by elderly people and a few commuter types. However most of the area (hardly a town, too many trees and gigantic plots of land) was ultra-posh and consisted of huge sprawling mansions and country retreats populated by various Quentins, Ruperts, mega-rich types and the odd celebrity.

One of the latter was a certain veteran family entertainer, game-show presenter, tap-dancer, miss world marrier and all round nice guy. You know the one.

Anyhows, Bru... erm... this fellow used to be a regular sight around the area, could often be found having a curry in the local curryhouse happily sat amongst the "normal" clientele, and would regularly park his jag outside our flats on a saturday and go wandering around the shops.

Now here's the thing. I would never suggest that this distinguished gentleman wears a hairpiece. Except that, viewed from above from out of our kitchen window, his hairline did indeed present a most curious sight, with a clearly visibile bizarre square-ish area looking oddly toupee-like. Only said gentleman's steadfast avoidance of ever admitting to wearing such a thing prevented me from jumping to any wild conclusions.

He became a bit of a novelty if we had friends over at the weekend; we'd wait until his car arrived, call our guests over to the window and let them indulge in a little celeb-spotting. Most of the time all due respect and reverance was shown, however one time a certain mate of mine had been on the piss since about nine that morning (first visit to the country in a long time, and it was xmas time), viewed his Jag down below and quite visibly began to display a sense of clear purpose.

He swung the window open, and just as the poor old fella was getting out of his car, leant out and bellowed "WIIIIGGG!!!" at the top of his lungs.

Not only did the intended recipient clearly hear him (he was only about 30 feet away), but so did every other person in and around the shops peacefully going about their business. The poor felow had to walk off salvaging what little dignity he could whilst my mate hooted, pointed and guffawed drunkenly after him down the street.

He never parked there again.
(Ali Bongo 9000 Ali Bongo 9000, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:42, Reply)

My girlfriend is posh....
She wont even let me finger her unless i've rinsed them with Evian first.

:|
(nappy rash, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 16:24, Reply)

Posh? Not we?
In our house (a modest, terraced abode in semi-rural West Yorkshire) our family lived an almost monastic existence. We wore simple clothes, made simple entertainment for ourselves, and Mother cooked simple food and raised simple children. Father had a good job that he took pride in, working as a toad fettler (known as a toad husher in parts of Lancashire) for the local council (although later they moved him on to the considerably less rewarding job of salamander jostling, which, I believe, is ultimately what brought about his premature end - his constant wailing troubled us all a little during his last days).

Father used half of his wage to pay the bills and buy the essentials our family needed; half was saved to spend on religious festivals (Eid was his personal favourite, although he always became excited when approaching Passover); the other half was donated to charities for children, animals and the bald.

Although we had very little, we were always willing to share that which we had. Quite often we would be visited upon by foreigners passing through from places such as Derbyshire and Lincolnshire and we would always invite them in for a bowl of Mother's famous broth.

One evening, father answered a knock at the door to find a little darkie standing there. He was a hungry-looking thing with a youthful face, but his greying wrist hair betrayed his maturity. He began speaking to us, but he was clearly foreign.
"Me is needin food in mi belli," was the first noise he made. "Me is heerin dat ya gat di soop. Pleez mista can ya spare mi di soop. Me is hongri an week."
Father, a perplexed expression on his face, closed the door a moment and turned to face us all sitting in the living room, from where we had been listening intently. We all stared at him blankly. None of us could understand this stranger's primitive language. Father appeared crestfallen, but, being the great and patient man that he was, opened the door once more and persevered with our strange visitor.
"Alas, my friend, black as soot and wiry of hair though thou art in mine eyes, and in mine eyes a curious creature indeed, I am at a loss as to what thine gruntings imply."
The caller did not answer.
"What is this?" bellowed Father. "What kind of heresy doth thou ply that it shalt darken this here door and cast a shadow upon the lives of the collective fruits of my most prolific of loins? Canst thou speaketh no English?"
Still, our visitor did not reply. Father despised ignorance as much as he valued dignity and, in a fit of untold rage he dealt our new acquaintance a shattering blow with his toading candle. The base of the candle struck sweetly upon the black forehead, knocking unconscious he who would mock and goad Father with his silence. Swiftly, Father scooped him up in his bulging arms and carried him indoors.

Upon awakening, our new guest was trained to perform basic household chores such as waxing Mother's spine and acting as a kind of makeshift door to the bathroom whenever one of us received the call of nature. We seemed to get along very well with him, and dubbed him Herman Goatman, on account of him being unable to speak English, rather like a goat. We used the money we had saved for Lent to buy food for him, and we used to howl with laughter when, during the night, he would awake from his slumber in the coal cellar, screeching like a big black man-crow. On stormy nights we would make him dance in the street with a rod of copper between his teeth, and we would chant, "Go, Goatman, Go!" and laugh uncontrollably whenever the sound of approaching thunder rumbled ominously in the near distance. This sound, followed by the desperate, copper-muffled shriek of the dancing Goatman, is something I shall remember with fondness for the rest of my life.

The fun was not to last, however. Some of our neighbours became jealous and began to call us "posh" and started to say that we were getting too big for our boots. Not one to let the good family name be dragged through the mud, Father bound Herman Goatman's hands and feet together and cast him into the river. Our dignity remained intact.
(stusut79, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 14:09, Reply)

Shower Anyone ?
My mate from Beckenham, let call him Brad for the sake of argument and cos its his name, is not posh, not at all, is 6 foot somfink ,looks like an extra from Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and everything he says sounds like a threat. He also has a neck problem in that he has some fused vertibrae which mean he can't turn his head so turns his body..... he also has a liking for Mr J Daniels and has a penchance for stripping to the waist when bevvied up and walking up to strangers in the street, bending down so he is at face height and screaming "I'm a f*cking nutter" at them. Charming I'm sure you'll agree.....anyway, now you have an idea of the character....

Said friend was at a posh party (how he got invited I don't know, probably mistaken identity) and was generally being ignored by everyone because he hired his tux as opposed to had it hand sewn by blind Tibetan monks.... the only attention he seem to be able to attract was from the copius numbers of waiting staff who ensured his glass was never empty...... as the evening progressed he got steadily more unsteady and generally was determined to try and tale a few people out of their comfort zones. Wind on a bit to the small hours of the morning where most people were at "copping off" stage....... he spies a girl who looks very posh (well he said she looked a bit like a horse but the QOTW wasn't about people who looked like a horse so we are assuming here that people at posh party who look a bit horsey are probably posh) and she was clearly waiting for someone to return with a drink or from the bog or somewhere. Anyway, moving swiftly on, he decides to make his play, he swaggers up to her, actually he probably swayed up to her but swagger is a much better word, and decided his best opening chat up line was...."Hello Love, can I P*ss on your T*ts".... the reason why this story is, well to me anyway, so memorable is that she said in a cut glass accent "Yes, if you like".

We'll skip the whole relationship thing until a more relevant QOTW surfaces but as he has only tried said chat up line twice and has pulled once then in the words of Family Fortunes "We asked 100 posh birds if we could p*ss on their t*ts"...then my bet for top answer would be "Yes, if you like" at 50%.
( Spackweasel - because weasels get Downs Syndrome too, Fri 16 Sep 2005, 10:19, Reply)

...
I once used a bidet.
(smuj83, Sat 17 Sep 2005, 12:24, Reply)

My beloved wife...
is a direct decendant of Charlemagne - as in greatgreat...(x38)...greatdaughter.

Therefore my son is as well.

He puked on my shirt this morning. I guess this was to demonstrate his contempt of the working classes.
( bierbelly, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 12:38, Reply)

Posh...
I'm so posh I don't shit... ever!

Fact.
(The Duke of Pontefract, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 11:09, Reply)

poshness
Had a mate who's gran was a bit posh,she invited him and his mom for tea once.The dog(e claims it was a dobberman)kept jumping up on him as they arrived."Kick his balls"exclaimed the gran(meaning the dogs tennis //footie ball)
My mate planted a walloping boot in the poor dogs scrotum.Later after being well chastized,they setteld down to tea,the dog in his basket licking his swollen nads.My mate said"Gee wish I could do that"to which the posh granmother aserbicly replied"Ask him maybe he 'll let you.Wich goes to show poshness is not inherited its inbred
(bleedthingie, Mon 19 Sep 2005, 13:37, Reply)

My family are pig thieves
Always have been, always will be
( Brown cow, Sat 17 Sep 2005, 19:43, Reply)

Randomly Posh
I once went out with this girl whose family were so Posh they referred to each other by their middle names, rather than their given names.
I've no idea why, but it obviously seemed an amusing jape to them.
They also had a cat who was too lazy to use his catflap and you had to hold it open for him. Posh fluffy wanker.
( Joe Scaramanga with a G-double-O-D vibration, Fri 16 Sep 2005, 8:59, Reply)

Polo with the Queen
As a young sprog the Queen came over to visit and I was chosen to represent our Cub scout pack in a parade that was held in the park.

When the day arrived, I was upset to notice that all the other cub packs (or the parents) had provided their representatives with a bouquet of flowers or a pennent to present to the Queen - myself, well I had nothing.

So thinking a quickly as a seven year old can, when I was called I stepped forward, ripped off a salute and offered the only thing I had available.

"Would you like a polo mam?"

After my six week ban from the Cubs had finished, it was explained to me that Polo was a game played on horseback and it was this that our monarch enjoyed and not the grubby sweets kept in my pocket.

My mum still wants to die of embarrassment nearly tewnty years later.
( Kovacs Slogan free since 2003, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 15:41, Reply)

I'm so posh....
Somebody else is writing this for me...
(Bob Catshit, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 14:43, Reply)

my family
as I mentioned are rather posh. I forgot to mention that my great great unc was one of those dignitaries buried in Peterborough cathedral under a lifesize statue of him lying down with arms crossed. And some other ancestor was a previous archbishop of Capetown.

They also like to hobnob with the rich & famous. Hence:

My cousins godfather is Gerry Anderson (of thunderbirds fame).
My Aunt has met the Dalai Lama, as well as had sex with his UK representative, as caught out by my cousin Polly, who was rather young at the time.

And best of all:

Saddam Hussein took my Granny out to dinner once.
(teasus likes tea, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:33, Reply)

Tending to the sick
I'm apparently descended from one of the followers of Robert The Bruce (he what whupped English erse at Bannockburn). After Bruce stabbed a rival after meeting him in a church, this chap asked the very practical question: "Did you kill him?" and wandered into the church to "make sure" (the family motto).

Killing a helpless, wounded man on the altar of a church. Now THAT is posh.
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Fri 16 Sep 2005, 16:25, Reply)

I'm not posh, but...
I had a posh girlfriend once. She took me to a ball at the London Hilton. Black tie, cocktail dresses, the whole routine. I shagged her under the table.

Will that do?
(><(((">, Fri 16 Sep 2005, 12:12, Reply)

polo and yachting
At my school Polo and yachting were sport options.
You had to have your own horse and yacht to participate.

I thought this was normal.
( hismastersvice cunting flange-jammer, Fri 16 Sep 2005, 6:47, Reply)

I once met a girl...
...who was that posh, she got out of the bath to have a piss.

Honest.
( fr13day has everything required to be a Penguin, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 19:01, Reply)

Peasants!
I’m so posh I bought one of those giant Landover things. I can’t drive or park it but that doesn’t matter because I am the biggest thing on the road and can squash smaller cars and their occupants like insects leaving me to walk away from any road accident with a big posh fucking smile on my face!

Want to know what the funniest part is? Even though my car does less than 0.4 miles to the gallon and eats up the worlds resources at a disproportionate rate the government only makes me pay the same road tax as that young lad down the road with no money and a dented old Peugeot!

I also wipe my arse with £50 notes and wash my genitals in champagne!
(Minty Hit, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 14:22, Reply)

Posh?
My fiance Tones actually gets out the bath to have a piss.
(wez, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 14:07, Reply)

Me
I'm posh as fuck, me!


Really, I bet I'm the poshest cunt in this room!

Fuck aye!
(Barry Subchimp, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 12:50, Reply)

I'm by no means posh...
...but from the ages of four to seven I lived in Barcelona due to parental work commitments. My dad, being on a pretty good salary, chose to send me and my brother to the private international school rather than one of the rough inner-city Spanish educational establishments.

Anyway, my school, being newly built back then (late 80s), and named after an affluent area of London (Kensington), had the Queen invited to come and officially 'open' it. It was to be a rather large affair, with the press, parents and a number of assorted people invited to come along and wave mini Union Jacks while the old bat did things like shake hands with the headmaster, address the adoring crowd, uncover a plaque, etc.

My class was asked to draw a picture of her, to show how much we appreciated her being there. However being six I didn't really know or care who the Queen was or what she looked like.

Anyway, at one point during the day a woman came into my classroom to have a nosey about. 'And what is that?' she asked, pointing at my picture.

'It's the Queen,' replied I, not taking any real interest in who I was talking to.

'Oh,' she said, and walked off.

The woman who'd come to look at my picture?

Only our bloody monarch, I was later informed.

It's not my fault I didn't know who she was - she'd have been more recognisable if she'd been wearing a bloody crown!
( The Helpful Bear, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 10:56, Reply)

Poshness sucks
I myself am from Kent, not a very posh bit I must admit, but I can speak posh if I wants to.

But anyway, the poshest person I've ever met is the leader of the the County Council at work, I installed his pc for him in his wood panelled office which even had a fireplace FFS! With a portrait of some guy on a horse surrounded by dogs and dead foxes or somethin. I think the painting was of himself but this thing was like 12 feet tall and 4 foot wide, seriously large! So surrounded by leather bound tomes of old council bollocks i trundled in with me trolley with his new pc, and said in my best estuary english:

(phonetic for you pedants)

"Awight maate, ha ya doin?"

to which he said:

"Excuse me!"

So I said:
"Awight maate! wherdya want the computer to go then"

He looked angry that a commoner was in his office so he just pointed to the desk and went out.


How I laughed as I wiped my schlong round his coffe mug.
(Jimmy Large Is huffing Jenkem on, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 10:42, Reply)

King
If 60,441,457 people drop dead in england I will be King.
(waxdart hello., Mon 19 Sep 2005, 13:12, Reply)

Lavatory
One is so posh that one removes the dishes from the sink before evacuating one's bladdes.
(BossBostin, Mon 19 Sep 2005, 10:59, Reply)

My grandmother, freshly passed away. bless her
was wonderfully posh. Educated in Switzerland, and her grandfather had some kind of intellectual copyright on Tower Bridge. Always used passive pronouns ("one's just shat oneself," as she got older)

Her choicest posh moment was after my biological grandfather legged it and she remarried an Admiral because "one finds so much good blood among seamen."
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Sat 17 Sep 2005, 10:36, Reply)

While I'm the son of a wiltshire farmer
I am not posh at all. Born and bred on the land, salt of the earth type etc.

Anyhow, my next door neighbours children (also a farmer) have extended family living not too far away in Malmsbury. We're talking cousins etc.

Highgrove house (prince Charles gaff) is in Tetbury, which is close to Malmsbury, and so the Two Princes spend a lot of time around this area (My brother served both of them in Pizza Hut in Swindon - Ordered a meat feast). Harry drinks in the Vine Tree in Malmsbury, where next door neighbours daughter works as a barmaid. The Vine Tree was the pub that Harry got caught smoking dope.

Anyhoo, a few christmas's ago, there was a shindig in the Vine tree, my mate and all his cousins were there, along with Harry. Everyone is getting beered up, and eventually the disco gets going and everyone is having a good time, until my mates cousin bumps into harry on the dance floor. This lad is also of the farming stock, and is huge, over 6'6 and built like an outhouse. Harry, unfazed and worse for wear, calls him a *peasent* and told him to piss off.

This lad, not being exactly small, and being surrounded by family and friends, comtemplated hitting the royal shit, on the reasoning that "I'd be in the papers tomorrow".

Sadly Harry got away scot free, but stil continues to drink snakebite black in the Vine Tree.

Also, another Harry story, He's in the Army at Sandhurst now, because he failed his Marines entry test. I know this cos my mate was on the same course as him. Ha, the ginger shit!

Apologies for length and the time wasted reading this, you'll never get it back! And the fact that your still reading, even though the story finished a long tme ago, and I've got nothing better to do than waste your time. I'll add another apology for poor grammer and punctuation. Meh!
( Moonraker isn't the droid you were looking for, Fri 16 Sep 2005, 12:59, Reply)

Right.....
I raised a quizzical eyebrow and uttered the words 'This place is a refuge for the poor' and with that... I took my Paul Daniels head out from her mouth and laughed heartily. 'HA HA HA HA HA' I boomed.
She had been in the room for more than her fair stay and I had a trickle of guilt for some of the things which I had 'taught' her.
At first we romanced, we danced, we had a ball but, with her being a scrubber it was inevitably going to end in tears.
My father had forbidden the relationship from the first outset and was a man of great passion and furious belligerence when it came to, as he called them 'the great unwashed'.
Mother was cold, like a sheet of icy serenity which only served to make fathers unquenchable thirst for the blood of the underclasses, more torrid and unduly hideous.
I did the only thing that was possible, at this, the poor wretch's time of need....
I kept her in the loft, fed her raw pork, cut all her hair off and punched her in the face.
Her looks had weathered over the years and it would be a lie to say that time had been kind to her. Yet i found a strange love inside me for this urchin, the kind of love a man finds for a well trained dog, a sexual love,
I bum dogs you see. As far as I can see, that is the main difference between the higher class of people and the anti-aristocrat, they work hard for a living and we need not do, they live simple and humble lives, ours are blessed with indulgence and hedonism, we bum dogs, them, not so much.

Why is that? I thought to myself one day whilst giving 'scruffy' a thoroughly deserved seeing too.
Suddenly a thought crossed my mind 'I can smell dog poo', it was a mystery all right... The Game Was Afoot!

I lurched back and forward, my legs were of varying sizes and walking up and down stairs made me weave back and forth.
I lunged at the nearest hound, a small Corgi by the name of Lord Snootles Hemmingway-Smithe, he also took the full chudderbum dry.
The look on his face was priceless.
"I AM SALAMAN, SON OF VALDOR!" I exclaimed as I bullyrammed my third victim, Sir Earnest Archingway-Croften-Martyn, a small dachshund with a kind eye and a reputation as a lovable cad. It was still there, that foul smell. Dogmuck. Dogdirt.
The stench was overpowering, I gaged with tears in my eyes and a painful grimace as I shot my full load all over Sir Archingways slender backside.
Then it was the turn of my old arch enemy, Viceroy Pumpernackle Consworthy-Honningchurch, a vicious bloodhound with a cruel streak a meter wide and a curious white flash that ran from the top of his head to the tips of his oversized paws.
'My spidey-sense is Caningaling' I thought, as I held old el' pumernackle (a pet name, forgive the pun) in front of me and went mental, kicking his back-doors in with furious gusto.
He didn't seem bothered, just carried on chewing an old cricket ball he seemed to have produced from no-where.
I was fast approaching the vinegar strokes when the mutt turned round to me and opened his mouth, but nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.
"Craig Charles will be in Coronation Street" he murmured. I was stunned, I politely asked him to repeat, which he did only much louder and clearer than the first time he had spoken.
"Craig Charles will be in Coronation Street".
I finished my dirty duty with an arc of cocksick that I smeared all over his proud mary. 'Craig Charles' I thought to myself, 'whatever next'
"Craig Charles the rapist?" i asked my furry compadray
"You can talk?" I questioned.
"You can talk!" he spat,
"you've hurt my doggy's bum bum, bad-style"

"Wait a minute" I pronounced.
"poo comes from my bum.... and I eat food, and dogs eat dog food, so maybe... if my calculations are correct...
DOG POO COMES FROM A DOGS BUM!"

"stands to reason" announced Pumpernackle,
"what else would explain the stench of dogshit in here".

Of course we laughed and laughed and later that day I took pumpernackle to the vets and had him destroyed.

Thus, Solving the mystery of...
"The stench of the poor and bumming"
(JinDod, Fri 16 Sep 2005, 11:10, Reply)

I invited the Queen
to my 6th (or 5th I can't remember) birthday party. I had visions of soldiers lining my garden while she showers me with great gifts, to the envy of all my friends.

I got a personal reply! Still have the letter somewhere.

She couldn't make it though, said she was too busy...
(meagle, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 16:48, Reply)

Heh
I once went to Dorset (somewhere in England...I'm from Wales) so my friend could visit a guy who lived there and so we could go to Monkey World later (yay monkey's!!)
Anyway, whilst there I met the most posh person ever. This place seemed quite posh anyway, what with its mansion sized houses and sparkly clean pavements... but this guy was stupidly posh. His way of having fun was playing with cards and completing rubix cubes..
Not only was he posh but he was one of those horrid, stuck up English prats that think they're better than the Welsh
But this is one conversation that went on between him and my friend Beale.
Prat: Oh, so you're from Cardiff are you?
Beale: No, we're from Newport..
Prat: Ah well, there's only two places in Wales, Cardiff and the rest of Wales *cue snobbish laugh*
Beale: Well there's only two places in England...the place filled with the c**ts and the place filled with the rest of the c**ts.
*cue laughter from everyone else (even the other english people) and horrified look from prat*
Thankfully he didn't try offending us again.

Note: My hatred towards the english is only to the ones who think they are better than everyone else, I in fact have MANY english friends who I love and my boyfriend is english. I hope I didn't offend anyone with this post.
(mindpoet17, Thu 15 Sep 2005, 13:58, Reply)